


The Raven of Portobello Road

by orphan_account



Category: Tintin (Comics)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-22
Updated: 2006-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tintin travels to London to visit a recovered Chang, he unexpectedly encounters an old enemy.  Set between Tintin in Tibet and The Castafiore Emerald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Raven of Portobello Road

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Keswindhover

 

 

The weather outside was cloudy and overcast, with the occasional ray of sunlight peeking through. Grassy countryside whipped past the train windows, increasingly dotted with clusters of buildings and other signs of human habitation. Some black birds wheeled overhead.

At half two on a Thursday afternoon, the car wasn't particularly packed--a businessman with a suitcase and a copy of Time Out across the way, and a middle-aged woman with two large bags ensconced snugly in the rear corner--which was just as well, really, with all the noise. Tintin quirked his eyebrows a little at the Captain, who was sprawled over two blue-padded seats, snoring at the top of his lungs. His cheek was pressed hard against the plastic divider bracketing the door to the car, his cap tilted at a crazy angle, and Snowy dozed in his lap.

The woman in the corner wore a vaguely disapproving expression, staring resolutely out the opposite window over her strikingly hooked nose. The businessman remained unperturbed.

His legs crossed comfortably in front of him, Tintin flipped open the letter in his hands, scanning the contents one more time.

_Dear Tintin,_

_I hope that you are well, and that good fortune graces the noble house of your friend, the Captain._  
Since my unfortunate relapse some months ago caused our reunion to be so unhappily brief, I have asked my honorable adoptive uncle's permission to invite you to London for a visit. He says that he would be overjoyed to open his humble home to the great-hearted friends who saved my life, and so I hope that you will do us the great honor of accepting. I am fully recovered, at last, from my illness, but have another month before I will journey back to Shanghai.  
I have enclosed the direction to my uncle's home, and await your reply with hope. 

_Chang Chong-Chen_

Tintin smiled and tucked the letter away in his pants' pocket. The train was coming in to a station; a much more crowded one, surrounded by buildings. It stopped with a bump, causing the Captain's head to bounce against the plastic barrier.

"Blistering barnacles!" He jerked up, rubbing his head and grimacing horribly. Snowy, rudely awakened, barked indignantly. "Confounded contraption! Modern technology is far too concerned with moving faster, and not nearly enough with keeping my skull intact." Tintin winced sympathetically at the bluster, checking the station name as a few more people trickled in. Northfields. They were coming into the city proper, but it would be awhile until they reached their destination; as it was, they needed to switch lines twice before they could set foot on the London pavement. He glanced up at the colorful tangled lines of the tube map, as Snowy laid his head down on his paws, and the Captain's eyes drifted closed again. Slowly, gently, the Captain's head came to rest against the barrier once more.

_Some time later_

Snowy pranced ahead as Tintin inserted his travelcard and pushed through the gate, blinking at the sudden sunlight pouring out from between the clouds. Queensway station's narrow passage gave way abruptly to the bustling street. Cars and red double-decker buses passed two and fro outside, and he caught a glimpse of green beyond them.

"Come along, Captain," he called to his friend, as he came up behind, suitcases in hand. "Look! You can see Kensington Gardens, right across the street." They stepped out onto the narrow sidewalk, hung about with signs for small restaurants, internet cafes, and something called the Bureau de Change.

"Have a hankering to pay a visit to Peter Pan?" The Captain, at his shoulder, offered him an ironic wink.

"Later on, perhaps. For now, why don't we check in to our hotel, and then we can go and see Chang."

"Agreed." The Captain glanced around with the almost proprietary look of a man returning to his homeland, while Tintin consulted a street map.

"The hotel's just up Queensway a ways, and a block or so to the left," he announced, as they turned up the busy street. The sidewalks were crowded with shoppers and dawdlers; the air full of a multiplicity of languages. The Captain tilted his head and sniffed; the thickly-crowded restaurants they passed gave off thick, familiar aromas. Snowy licked his lips, glancing at the open doorway to a Chinese establishment, but ducked his head and subsided at a stern glance from Tintin.

The hotel was a beautiful white Victorian affair, an old townhouse terraced with iron railings, but updated plumbing, to the Captain's reassurance.

Having refreshed themselves and deposited their luggage, the pair met downstairs at the desk. Leaning an elbow on the dark, polished surface, Tintin turned to the clerk.

"Which way to Portobello Road?"

"I'll draw you a map, sir. If you like antiques, you'll want to go back on Saturday for the market, it's very popular . . ." Nodding thoughtfully in response to the man's solicitous prattle, Tintin accepted the scrawled instructions, and they headed out; it was a short, pleasant walk in the glow of early twilight. The Captain lit his pipe with a sigh of contentment, and Snowy chased a few weary pigeons.

Although it wasn't a market day, the area was still fairly busy, with tourists and locals bustling out of the closing shops and on to the restaurants. They passed the famous pastel-colored buildings as they passed; pink, aqua, blue. The Captain puffed thoughtfully on his pipe as he gazed at the wares on display in a few windows, the silver glinting dully as shopkeepers swept floors and went through the receipts in the background. "I should really look around another day, don't you think? I still have to replace some of the glassware old Cuthbert destroyed that time," he mused. Glancing at some strange contraptions in the corner of the dustiest window there, Tintin thought that it was a shame Professor Calculus had to be missing this for his American conference. Then again, perhaps not; a small hand-written sign on the door indicated that Raven's Nest Antiques had gone out of business the week previously. It did seem rather out-of-sync with the rich displays and bright storefronts of its surroundings.

The Captain suddenly stopped in his tracks, causing Snowy to run nose-first into the back of his legs. The little white dog glared up at him, and Tintin gave him an inquiring glance: the bearded man was patting and clutching at his jacket pockets, his mouth wide open in shock.

"What's the matter, Captain?"

"Blistering barnacles, my wallet! It's gone!" Reflexively, Tintin glanced at the sidewalk behind them, but there was nothing to be seen. Then he relaxed.

"Didn't you tell me that you'd put it in your suitcase for safekeeping, after the flight? You must have forgotten to take it out, in which case it's back at the hotel, safe and sound."

The Captain blinked, then slumped his shoulders in relief. "You're right, of course. I got carried away--the Thompsons took special care to warn me about London pick-pockets, before we left."

"I have heard that they're a problem," Tintin agreed, as they began to walk again. "Perhaps you should purchase some elastic, as the Thompsons did, back during that business with the model ships."

"No thanks! I have no desire to have that dashed back in my face," the Captain chuckled, remembering the unforeseen consequences of the detectives' precautions. "Funny thing, really, though; that pick-pocket was operating around the same time that we tangled with those gangsters, the Bird brothers. Now here we are, at an antique market!"

"Maybe that's why I thought of it," Tintin remarked.

Unremarked behind them, a large nose was pressed against the dusty window-pane of the Raven's Nest Antiques shop. A stout figure stood there, staring after the receding pair with narrowed, beady eyes. As Tintin and his companions turned a corner, Max Raven--formerly Max Bird, of Marlinspike Hall--aimed one last glare of pure hatred at that unmistakable, bobbing blonde tuft of hair.

"Tintin."

At first glance, the dastardly antiques dealer looked much the same as he had those years ago during the Unicorn caper. However, his posture had slumped, subtly; no longer did he possess the poised and confident bearing of a man who was master of his world, with mansion, money, and prospects before him. His plump face now wore a look of permanent bitterness.

Forced to flee Marlinshire, and Belgium altogether, he had sought haven here. Seeking to rebuild his business from the ground up had proven disastrous; he had been forced to change his name to avoid pursuit, and by extension, to abandon all but the shadiest of his contacts. His assets had been lost with his mansion, and his brother was still serving time on the continent for the attempted murder of their former associate, Barnaby. With little to recommend him to the cosmopolitan and increasingly trendy atmosphere of the world's biggest antique market, his business had not been good, and finally a sharp rise in rent had forced him to close down altogether. He was moving out of his flat in a day or two, with few prospects for the future, except involvement in the criminal elements to which he was still attached; thieves and forgers all.

Desperate, but still clever, he had come up with one final, if rather reckless, scheme. He had little enough to lose. However, on the very eve of his attempt, here was the inexplicable appearance of the boy to whom he owed his ruin!

"He must have heard something--he's on my tail," Max muttered as he moved away from the windows, stepping over piles of rubbish as he made his way to the back of the shop. "I'll have to fix him; fix him for good this time."

_Meanwhile_

A very friendly, elderly Chinese man was ushering Tintin and the Captain into his small but prosperous shop, before closing the door on Snowy's tail. The dog yelped indignantly and shot forward, straight into the arms of Chang, who bent to receive him.

"Poor Powder-Snow," Chang laughed, while his uncle launched into a profuse apology.

"Really, it's quite all right; he's simply hopeless and accident-prone." Tintin smiled warmly. "I am Tintin, Mr. Wang, and this is my friend Captain Haddock. I am most honored to meet you."

The Captain doffed his cap. "How d'you do, your worship."

Wang Li-Ho bowed in response. "It is I who am honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tintin; savior of both of my nephews. My brother has written much about the great feats you undertook in Shanghai, on behalf of his family and the Chinese people, and to the risk of your own mind and sanity. And I have heard also, Captain, of your bravery in the rescue of my dear adoptive nephew. You are both welcome." He bowed again.

Snowy leapt indignantly out of Chang's arms as the boy came forward. The shadow of his dire illness, brought on by his ordeal in the Himalayas, could still be detected in his face. His thin frame, however, was rounding out with regained health, and his face shone as he reached out to clasp Tintin's hands.

"Tintin! It is so good to see you again! Thank you so much for coming. And you as well, Captain."

Tintin's grin split his face from ear-to-ear. "It's wonderful to see you, too, Chang. I'm so happy to see you well at last."

"Glad to see you, young'n."

Mr. Wang bowed again. "Will you do me the profound honor of sharing dinner in my humble flat? I have prepared a small dinner for four, accompanied with some fine wines I purchased in Piccadilly Circus earlier this week."

The Captain's slightly strained, formal expression softened by several degrees. "We'd be honored, absolutely honored . . . lead the way, your worship!"

As it turned out, Wang Li-Ho was not only a widower and a successful antique dealer; he was also an excellent cook. It certainly wasn't birds-nest soup.

_The following morning_

Tintin, Chang, and Snowy climbed out of the gloom of the subway leading from Tottingham Court Road tube station, and into the bustle of Soho. A jaunty tune followed them up the steps; the fiddle-player busking in the damp tunnel had clearly appreciated Tintin's contribution. Snowy cast a disapproving look in his master's direction.

They were Haddock-less for the moment, as the Captain had elected to rise rather more slowly than his traveling companion.

"Well, Chang, the Captain's supposed to meet us outside the British Museum in an hour. That doesn't give us much time, but shall we go and look around a little, anyway?"

Chang nodded, and they made their way towards Bloomsbury, past shops selling music, books, and liquor, and small trendy cafes. A stout, black-suited figure followed for about a block before darting down a side street.

The outer courtyard was full of people milling about, dressed in scarves and jackets but still sitting on the steps here and there, enjoying the early spring sun. The imposing columned entrance to the Museum loomed large before Tintin and Chang's upturned faces, while Snowy sniffed distractedly around the railings. He

"Crumbs! Just think, Chang--almost the whole of human history is chronicled inside! What a monument to learning this museum is," Tintin murmured as they climbed towards the doors.

"It is truly a wonder," Chang agreed.

"Hmph!" Snowy snorted, thinking, "human history! What's that? A few old rocks and some pointy sticks they poked each other with. I'd rather visit a museum with some bones in it!" He thought fondly of the natural history museum in Syldavia.

Chang gasped as they strode through, the Great Court blooming outward around them. "It is enormous!" He turned to Tintin. "Where should we start?"

Tintin's nose was buried in a brochure. "The exhibit on the age of Enlightenment is through there"--he nodded to the right--"and the ancient Egyptian artifacts are in that direction." He looked off to the left. "Did you know I was almost a mummy once, Chang?"

Chang stared. "You are joking with me."

Tintin shook his head, grinning. "It's a long story. We'll have a look at that later, then. We can see this room first." He pointed at a smaller room next to the large Egyptian exhibit.

Entering the small outermost room of the exhibit, Tintin and Chang paused in front of a large glass case directly in front of the door. Inside was an ancient chunk of black rock, inscribed with row upon row of unintelligible symbols and scrawlings. A large tour group brushed past them as they entered, leaving the room apparently empty.

"Have you read about the Rosetta Stone, Chang?"

"Yes, at the school my venerable adoptive father sends me to. I know that it contains the key to the mysterious writing in Egyptian tombs, which were a mystery since ancient times."

Chang looked up, and over at the assortment of huge Assyrian statues and stelas that Tintin was wandering towards. He paused in front of another, smaller stone tablet. "The Assyrian version of the story of the Flood, Chang. In this story, the dove only comes back because it can't find dry land. It's the raven that finally brings the people relief, because it never returns, proving that it found somewhere else to go. In the Hebrew version, that just made the raven unreliable. Funny how different cultures see things." He turned and looked up at an imposing relief, carved with a nude, horned woman, and grinned. "And this is the goddess Ishtar. She was a terror; tried to push the hero Gilgamesh around, but he wouldn't marry her--the Captain could relate--"

Suddenly there was a loud grinding noise. The enormous nine-foot stone stela behind Tintin, carved with the image of an Assyrian king, began to sway dangerously.

"Tintin, look out!" The blond boy dove away from the spot at Chang's cry.

"Wooah! Wooah!" Snowy was barking at someone behind the stela, who cursed and dashed out from his hiding place, bowling Chang over as he made for the door and disappeared in the crowd in the Great Court.

"Mr. Raven!"

Tintin clambered to his feet and hurried over to Chang; the stela was steadying itself, slowly, and a few curious people were peering in to see what the ruckus had been about.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, are you?" Tintin nodded. "I don't understand. Why would Mr. Raven do such a thing?"

"Who is Mr. Raven, Chang?"

"Why, he owns another antique shop, around the corner from my uncle's, or, he did. He was not nearly so fortunate or prosperous as my uncle, and had to close down his shop. He tried to sell my uncle some old vases a few weeks ago, but it seems that they were almost certainly fakes."

Tintin frowned. "Chang, this Mr. Raven . . . what does he look like? I only saw him from behind." At Chang's description, he shook his head. "I just can't believe it! All the same, though . . ." He smiled ruefully. "It sounds as though he may be an old friend, who wanted to say hello. I wonder why? Last time we met, he was after something that he thought was worth such risky behavior . . ."

_That evening._

Having seen Chang off at the tube station, with promises to visit again later, Tintin set about filling the Captain in on what had happened. They walked down Charing Cross road, past Leicester Square, which was spilling over with tourists from all over the world. The Captain, swearing, narrowly missed stepping on a rather short Japanese woman who darted out of the way just in time.

"One of the Bird brothers? In disguise?! Thundering typhoons, what is he doing in London?"

"I don't know, but I'd like to find out," Tintin responded grimly. "I'm going to go by his shop later and see if there are any clues."

"Are you crazy? The man tried to kill you--twice!" The Captain shook his head emphatically. "Why do you always have to go chasing trouble? Mark my words, no good will come of sneaking around that vulture."

"Maybe not, but you must admit that trouble came chasing me this time, Captain," he responded, as the monuments of Trafalgar Square came into view, "and he probably hasn't finished yet. Until we get to the bottom of this, we are all in danger; including Chang and Mr. Wang."

The Captain twitched.

"Look, I won't do anything tonight; I only want to have a look around. Maybe I'll find something worth telling the police."

"All right . . . but it's a bird of ill omen and no mistake," the Captain muttered.

_Several hours later_

Tintin peered around the corner onto Portobello Road. Things were quiet, with only one  
or two passerby several blocks down, though the lights were on in many flats and  
backrooms, where shopkeepers were preparing for market day.

Raven's Nest Antiques was quite dark, but for one tiny sliver of light shining through a door somewhere in the recesses of the shop. He flattened himself against the wall of the sidestreet, ready to wait.

He realized that he was alone. "Snowy?" He whispered. "Snowy, where are you?"

"By thunder, you really aren't nearly as bright as I thought." The cold nose of an automatic bumped into the side of his skull, and he slowly turned to see Max Bird, whose beady little eyes were peering out of the darkness at him with a mad glint in them. "Neither was your dog. A little toy dipped in chloroform and he was out like a light." Tintin could see a motionless white shape on the ground a bit behind.

"Monster!" He peered in that direction, desperately trying to make out the rise and fall of breath, but he couldn't tell.

"Hmph, maybe. What about yourself? Chasing me after all this time, all the way to this country. Thought you could catch me at it; finish the job you started on me years ago, as you did with my idiot brother. Not likely! I'm going to get my hands on something much better than pirate treasure, something that will put me down in history as well as make me rich. But first, I'm going to finally dispose of you."

Tintin gulped.

"What, nothing clever to say?" The gun hovered inches away from Tintin's head. "Where's your little friend, anyway? Back at that confounded Chinaman's shop, I suppose. I've seen him there before." It was true. Tintin hadn't wanted Chang to know where he was going, lest he insist on accompanying him; Chang had shared danger with him before, but his near death earlier that year had brought that danger home to Tintin in a new and powerful way. He'd finally convinced the Captain to stay, as well, to look after their friends . . . remembering the time he'd left Mr. Wang's brother unprotected and at the mercy of his enemies.

"It looks like this is it," Tintin thought, "and I don't even know why." He stayed silent, and Max smirked.

"You don't even know how I did it, do you? It wasn't easy, you know. They're supposed to be incorruptible, those Wardens . . . and they are, but some of them like their drink. It's not hard to become friendly with them, not hard to learn the details of their duties. Finally I met one who'd gone rather senile; it's an honor in place of retirement, after all. His superiors haven't figured it out yet, but they will soon, poor fool. Convinced I was harmless, he actually let me handle the damn thing."

The man was ranting now, barely even aware of his prisoner. Sweat began to run down Tintin's face as he stared down the barrel of the gun that was still pointed at his face. He might be able to knock it away, dodge, kick the man's legs out from under him . . . if he were fast enough. In earlier days, he would have done just that, but now other thoughts gave him pause. He was alone and unarmed; if he were killed, his friends would be vulnerable. Instead, he could listen, in the hopes that Max would reveal his scheme, without stopping to shoot him first.

Every muscle in his body was clenched, but he forced himself to hold still.

"The only contacts you left me with, when you forced me out of my home, were the real criminals. Well! One of them happens to be an excellent jeweler, and he's not above assembling very convincing replicas and fakes. I was selling those for awhile, until the police came sniffing around. It was a tricky moment, making the switch, but my friend didn't suspect me for an instant. The only real problem was getting it out of there. I had to stash it, temporarily, until I can return."

He paused. Tintin looked at him blankly, unable to process the flood of too-vague information. Why did criminals always assume that he already knew about their schemes?

"Still skeptical, I see." Max Bird chuckled, just a touch hysterical. "Fool. My brothers helped me, they hid it for me--all I have to do is walk in and collect it!"

At that moment, there was the unmistakable sound of a footstep, a few feet away. Max spun, his gun going off wildly into midair. Tintin sprang at him, knocking him down, and the two of them rolled about on the street. Though Tintin was very strong, the crooked antique dealer was a great deal heavier, and very desperate. He managed to pin Tintin down, scrabbling with one hand for his gun . . . but it had gone. Tintin looked up just in time to see Chang bringing the butt of it down on the crooked man's head, knocking him out.

He got to his feet, dusting off his plus-four trousers, and Chang held out the gun. He took it. "Well, you've saved me again! How did you know I'd be here?"

Chang shook his head reproachfully. "As though I'd believe you'd stayed at your hotel. I waited for the right moment, and then sneaked out. I knew I'd find you investigating Mr. Raven, after what happened at the Museum today. Also, your friend dozed off at our table, and was snoring like crazy, so it wasn't hard."

Tintin smiled ruefully. "Yes, it's been happening lately. I'm afraid he's getting a bit worn out."

After tying Max up with some rope they'd found in his own shop, Chang ran back to his uncle's, carrying the unconscious Snowy, to care for him and to call the police. Tintin stayed with the prisoner; in a few minutes, the Captain showed up at his side.

"Here I am, too late for all the action. Where's that pestilential plagiarist, Bird?"

"I tied him to a chair, just inside. He's out cold: Chang really has mended quite nicely."

"He's a good lad, your friend, nothing like Abdullah," the Captain nodded. "So what was all this fuss about anyway? Any notion why this pockmark was trying to do away with you? Besides the obvious, I suppose . . ."

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Tintin paced a little, his head bowed in thought. "I can't make sense of his ravings. He's clearly losing his mind; perhaps he didn't steal anything at all?"

He sat, leaning against the wall of the shop. In a moment, Chang came out to join them, with the news that Snowy was fine, but sleeping. The police were on their way.

The Captain lit his pipe, and a thoughtful silence descended.

The night had gone quickly; the sky was beginning to lighten. Tintin looked up to see several figures approaching along Portobello Road. Immediately, his serious expression twisted itself into a grin. He stood, stepping forward a few paces to meet them.

"My dear old friends! This is a surprise."

Chang covered his mouth to stifle himself, grinning from ear to ear. The Captain guffawed, and tried to cover up by pretending to have a sneezing fit. This earned him a glare from one of the objects of his hilarity, before they both turned their attention to Tintin.

"We were here in London, at a liaison meeting, and the local police sent us along to deal with your case. We're old hands at dealing with your scrapes, after all, so they bowed to our expertise."

"To be precise, our hands are all scraped; we are experts at bowing." It was Thomson and Thompson, of course; dressed as foot guards, of all things, complete with bearskin. The two London constables who flanked them looked extremely confused, which was the sensible response to the detectives' antics.

"We're very glad to see you," Tintin smiled. "The culprit is an old friend of yours as well, after all."

"Yes, we heard. Max Bird, the crooked antique dealer who once lived at Marlinspike Hall. It just goes to show" Thomson straightened himself up, closing his eyes, his chin proudly raised, "the law always gets there in the end."

"Quite right," Thompson nodded sagely. "So, er, what exactly was he after this time?"

"That's what I've been trying to puzzle out. He ranted a great deal about fame and fortune, just a lot of nonsense really, and . . . great snakes, it can't be that?"

"What is it?" Chang asked eagerly, and the assembled company all leaned forward to peer at Tintin's consternated expression. Suddenly it cleared, replaced with certainty.

"So, that's what he meant by "brothers" . . . come along, gentlemen! We need to go to the Tower!" He flung his arm wide, smacking the Captain across the face, as the man was leaning quite closely over his shoulder.

"Blistering barnacles, my pipe!" The ill-fated instrument was broken yet again. While Tintin apologized, Thompson instructed the two constables to collect Max "Raven" and take him in for questioning. Then, the whole group set out for the Tower of London.

_A bit later_

After a good deal of arguing--the Thompsons had managed to misplace their credentials--they were allowed into the Tower grounds. It was still quite early, and visitors were not yet allowed into the complex, which was deserted except for its guards and staff.

The Yeoman Warder who led them through the gates and up to the Tower was genial enough, though he kept casting perturbed glances at the Thompsons' inappropriate attire. They were certainly a sight, particularly because Thomson's bearskin was ill-fitting and kept falling into his eyes.

The detectives were unconcerned by the spectacle they were making, however. They were far more interested in Tintin, who hadn't explained anything about his conclusions on the tube ride over.

The Captain looked sleepy and annoyed. "Well, we're here. Now, are you going to tell us why?" He yawned.

"Yes, I'm sorry, Captain. You see, I think that our old friend Bird has stolen one of the Crown Jewels--"

"WHAT?" The Captain stopped suddenly, so that Thomson walked straight into him with a bump; his bearskin slipping down to his nose. Thompson hurried over to help straighten it out.

"Yes. Probably something small and easily concealable. But he couldn't sneak it out of the Tower, of course; it's a miracle he managed to get his hands on it at all, with the security here. He may be mad, but he's certainly still dangerous."

"Yes, but where did he put it, then?" the Captain demanded impatiently, looking stricken, his tiredness forgotten. He seemed to be remembering some long-forgotten patriotism, after years of living on the continent.

"I'm coming to that in a moment--we need to speak to the Ravenmaster, please," Tintin told the Warder, who nodded and went to fetch him, tripping a little as he looked back at the Thompsons one last time.

"The Ravenmaster?"

"Yes. Bird was rambling on about his "brothers," and how they had helped him hide his treasure. Well, he's been calling himself "Raven" . . ."

"And the Tower has ravens!" Chang broke in, catching on.

"Yes, so it seems clear to me that he must have somehow hidden it with them."

Just then, the Ravenmaster came striding over across the Green, an inquiring look on his lined, but friendly, face.

Tintin introduced himself, then said, "we need to have a look at the ravens, please." It was clearly an unusual request, but the beefeater nodded. He seemed to be slightly in awe of Tintin, and had professed himself a bit of a fan.

He whistled, and a couple of the birds came bobbing over, awkwardly, half-walking and half-flying on their clipped wings. One of them stumbled over the Captain's foot, gave an irritated squawk, and pecked at it sharply.

"OUCH! Pestilent pigeon!" He aimed a kick at the offending bird, which caused the Ravenmaster to step forward in alarm; however, the raven evaded the Captain's boot and wandered unperturbedly away again.

Tintin frowned. "I suppose they aren't very easy to handle. Even though they can't fly, they'd be dangerous?"

The Ravenmaster held up his gloved and gauntleted hands. "I get a few lasting love-bites every few days, even with the protection," he admitted ruefully.

"And Bird didn't have a scratch on him. I wonder . . ." He lifted his head. "Could we have a look at their cages?"

The complex of cages was tucked in a corner of the inner wall, in a grassy area surrounded by a number of large boulders. A raven was dozing atop one of these, enjoying the early morning sunlight in spite of the cool weather. The warder led Tintin and his companions to the entrance to the biggest cage, which he unlocked to let them investigate.

The detectives marched forward with an air of authority, but paused when they saw the droppings scattered across the floor. Their mustaches twitched fastidiously. The Captain rolled his eyes and was just about to comment when--

"Over there!" Chang pointed at a small pile of feathers to one side of the cage. Something was just visible, glinting in the sunlight. Tintin strode over and stooped down.

He held up a gold ring set with a large sapphire, rubies, and diamonds. The Ravenmaster gaped. "That's the Coronation Ring! How on earth did it get there?"

Tintin carefully handed the ring to the stunned beefeater. "I think you'll find that there's a fairly convincing replica in its place in the Jewel House. It was hidden here by a desperately clever man named Max Bird; but that's a long story, and we should probably tell it to the police as well."

As they exited the cages, they heard a crash. Both detectives, their bearskins obscuring their vision yet again, had crashed straight into the cage wall, and promptly fallen on their behinds in raven droppings.

_The next morning_

"I spoke to the Thompsons earlier; Max Bird made a full confession," Tintin announced over his plate of bangers and mash. They were having breakfast in a small café: Tintin, Chang, the Captain, and Snowy, whose wounded pride was being soothed with a nice, juicy bone. "Apparently he's really at the end of his rope, and they'll probably have to commit him somewhere."

"Black-market bandit," muttered the Captain, who was drowsing over his tea. "Can't believe I didn't get a crack at him myself, crazy or not."

"That was a pretty short adventure, for you, wasn't it?" Chang smiled. "You did not have much trouble with Mr. Raven--Bird--at all."

"Thanks to you, Chang," Tintin smiled. "The adventure may not be over, however. I still haven't seen much of London yet."

"I'd as soon go home and have some peace," Snowy thought to himself, munching his bone. "At least that's the end of jewels; I just can't understand the fuss."

THE END.

*****

Notes:

This story is set a few months after the events of _Tintin in Tibet_ ; however, the setting is contemporary London. I realize this is confusing; after all, the three remaining books, _The Castafiore Emerald_ , _Flight 714_ , and _Tintin and the Picaros_ are set in the sixties and seventies. However, after some thought, I decided not to worry about the lack of chronological continuity, mostly because . . . Hergé doesn't. Tintin is apparently the same age in 1931's _Tintin in America_ , when he tangles with Al Capone, as he is in 1976's _Picaros_ , complete with a brief appearance by some hippies. Chang, a young boy in pre-WWII China, is about the same age (or possibly a teenager) in _Tintin in Tibet_ , written and set in 1960. Herge's stories were by and large set in the context of whatever year he was writing them, and sometimes he would update older books to new decades, throwing his own timeline quite out of whack. As I'm actually a little bit familiar with 2000s London, and wasn't alive yet in the 1960s, I've decided to focus on writing a decent story with some degree of accuracy, rather than struggle with historical context.

That said, the artifacts I mention are all located in the British Museum, but not together in the same room. Also, that stela is extremely heavy; one person probably couldn't budge it, even the least little bit. Sorry, I did take a little license there.

 


End file.
